


Spices

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Aziraphale is frustrating, Come Swallowing, Don't copy to another site, Hand Jobs, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Pining, Wing Grooming, as foreplay, but Crowley doesn't want him to get dead, sort of in public, that turns into a blow job at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21918745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: In an attempt to help a group of refugees escape Baghdad, Aziraphale roams the local marketplace, bartering for everything his has of value to help them. Crowley finds him and offers him something he can use as currency, but Aziraphale refuses to just take it, afraid of what Hell might do if they found out Crowley helped them. So Aziraphale offers a trade, something very personal for the contents of Crowley's bag.And that's when they get stuck.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571323
Comments: 22
Kudos: 198
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy





	Spices

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the '12 Days of Blasphemy' prompt 'spices'. I jumped ahead. Sue me XD

_A bazaar in Baghdad, 816 AD_

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale, hiding in the shelter of a three-walled, abandoned stall, jumps near out of his flesh, the voice materializing behind his left ear too close for comfort. But he knows that voice. It’s familiar, one that soothes away the goosebumps on his skin, the prickling hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale turns to meet the grinning face of the demon who snuck up on him. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you. Seems I found you.”

“Yes, well, _how_ escapes me.”

“I’ve heard you’ve been all over this marketplace trying to sell a few choice items – camel for one. Not being too secret about it either.”

Aziraphale’s brow crinkles. “If I’m trying to sell a camel, why would I want to keep it a secret?”

“Because this isn’t the type of place where nice people come out in one piece.” Crowley creeps closer, crowding Aziraphale against the farthest of the hard stone walls. “And you … you usually aren’t this reckless. So what gives?”

“I have my reasons,” Aziraphale replies in a deceptively steady voice. But Crowley can tell from the way Aziraphale pats the air while he talks, he’s nervous.

Not just. He’s _terrified_.

Crowley plays off that, leans closer, makes Aziraphale uncomfortable. Crowley wants him to be. He wants him to realize how stupidly he’s behaving, putting himself in danger. But he’s also hiding Aziraphale from passersby, or any of the number of cut throats whose attentions he’s garnered by his inquiries.

“Who are they?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale draws back, tries to put space between them. But there’s nowhere for him to go, so he pulls himself up straight in defense. “Why would I tell _you_?”

“Because maybe I can help you.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Do you have a choice?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but they snap immediately back to Crowley’s face. “I think that answers my question.”

“Look, my side has no interest in your refugees, but there’s a whole legion of soldiers and bounty hunters who do. So stop being so stubborn and _let me help you!_ ”

“And how do you intend on helping me? Hmm? Heaven won’t answer my missives so I have to use my miracles sparingly. Apparently I’ve already failed at keeping a low profile so gold is out of the question. And I have positively no idea what else I can use around here for currency.”

Crowley moves off but not too far. He reaches underneath his long shirt, fiddling at the waist of his pants, and pulls out a sack tied tight at the top with a leather strap. “Here. Take this.”

“I already told you, no gold …”

“This isn’t gold!” Crowley hisses, dropping his voice. “What I’m carrying here will feed your travelers for weeks. It’ll ensure you safe passage. It’ll keep them _alive_ , Aziraphale. And you can keep your camel. One of your women is pregnant, is she not?”

Aziraphale’s jaw goes slack. He had only found out himself from the young lady a few nights ago. “How … how did you …?”

“There’s cinnamon, turmeric, salt, and saffron,” Crowley continues, dodging the obvious question. “Use the saffron carefully. It’s the rarest, so it’ll fetch the highest price, but it might get you some unwanted fans, especially in this town. By the way, if you want my advice … don’t let the sun set on you here.”

Aziraphale swallows, the call back to his own grave words from Eden sending a chill down his spine so fierce that, even in the stifling heat, he wraps his jacket tight around himself. Aziraphale risks a glance at the bag, then up at the demon holding it. “These must have been hard to come by. What do I need to give you for them?”

“Why do you need to give me _anything_ for them?” Crowley growls. “Why can’t you just _take_ them!?”

“That’s not the way things are usually done between our sides. If Hell finds out, I’m not certain they would approve. I don’t … I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Then _steal_ them! Get the upper hand on me!” Crowley puts the sack down on a low ledge and gestures to it, invites Aziraphale to take it. When Aziraphale doesn’t move, Crowley turns his back, counts to five. But when he looks around again, the sack is still there, Aziraphale staring at him perplexed. Crowley snarls in frustration. “Or take it by force!”

Aziraphale jerks, appalled. “ _Force_?”

“Yes! You can hit me! Hard! Across the face! Shove me to the ground, grab them, and run! Just do it, Aziraphale! Do something! You’re running out of time!”

That chill returns. Aziraphale is curious how Crowley knows, _what_ Crowley knows, but it doesn’t sway him. “I can’t do that! I don’t condone _violence_!”

“Grrr! Why do you need to make things so difficult!?”

“Maybe I can trade for the things I need!”

“You have _nothing_ to trade, Aziraphale! That’s your problem! Nothing of value!”

“Nothing of value to anyone else, but … maybe of value to you?” Aziraphale’s eyes become rounder, more hopeful – wide blue eyes that successfully halt every coherent thought in Crowley’s brain. Is Aziraphale suggesting what Crowley _thinks_ he’s suggesting? Is he offering himself to Crowley in exchange for the sack of spices?

How did he come up with _that_ idea?

Crowley _would_ jump at it, he acknowledges privately and with disgust. God above, would he jump at it! He’d despise himself for doing it out of trade but he’d do it nonetheless because in the end, he’d still be helping Aziraphale.

Right?

It would probably discorporate Crowley, but it would be no less than he deserved.

But they can’t because, among other things, Aziraphale is out of time! Crowley knows it.

“I want …” Crowley starts without knowing where that request will end up.

“Yes?”

“… a feather.”

Aziraphale stares at him a moment, confused. “A _feather_?”

“Yes.”

More staring, deeper confusion. “One of _my_ feathers?”

“No, an albatross feather – yes, Aziraphale! One of _your_ feathers!”

“Why on Earth would you want …?”

“Because an angel’s feather is a rare commodity! It might give me clout in Hell!”

Aziraphale stares longer at his exasperated companion, considering Crowley’s offer like he has all the time in the world. “I guess that makes sense,” he mutters.

“Yes. Yes, it does.” Crowley tosses an anxious glance over his shoulder and out the thin fabric curtain that replaces the one absent wall in the stall. “So hurry it up and give it to me so you can be on your way!”

“Fine. All right. Just don’t … don’t rush me.”

“Gah!” Crowley expels, his head ready to explode. “Holy … frickin’ … mother of … _gah_!”

The shoulders of Aziraphale’s shirt begin to widen and the seams to tear. Starting with the tips, his wings extend, sliding through the holes, unfurling straight. They’re a little mussed from non-use, but they shine brilliantly against the sienna walls, in contrast to the hard-packed brown sand.

They take Crowley’s breath away.

Aziraphale gives them a few hard flaps. Two gazes dart down, both angel and demon scanning the ground for stragglers, but they see nothing. Aziraphale gives his wings a shake, but not a single feather falls off.

“I don’t get it,” Aziraphale murmurs, reaching out to touch his feathers, give the ones within reach a tug. “I haven’t opened up my wings in _centuries_! You’d think one or two would be loose.”

“The way they look, you’d think they’d be shedding like _crazy_.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Insults are not necessary, you know.”

“Don’t rip them out!” Crowley says when Aziraphale grabs one and yanks so hard, it brings sympathetic tears to Crowley’s eyes. “You need to relax. Coax them out.”

“I’m sorry, but the situation we’re in at present isn’t really conducive to relaxation!”

“Can I help you?”

“I suppose you’d better.”

“Can I touch you?”

Aziraphale looks into Crowley’s eyes – slit yellow eyes shimmering in the diffused afternoon light, intense in their sincerity. Why this demon has chosen to help him, Aziraphale may never understand. He shouldn’t think it common for demons to help angels and yet an Arrangement they have made. Crowley was an angel once, as were all demons. But he acts less like a demon than any demon Aziraphale has ever met.

Looks less like one, too, but that’s neither here nor there.

Aziraphale opens his mouth to answer, but inconveniently, his voice seems to have gone into hiding. So he nods.

Crowley reaches out and touches Aziraphale’s wings, both at the same time, smoothing the feathers with long strokes down, wiggling the errant ones, then sliding them back into place when they refuse to yield. From time to time, he gives a few contenders a tug, but not hard enough to hurt. His warm, strong hands on Aziraphale’s wings make the angel’s eyelids flutter shut. No one else has ever touched his wings before. No one besides him grooms them, and that’s rare as of late.

In short, his wings feel neglected.

As do their owner.

Crowley’s eyes land on Aziraphale’s face when his eyelids drift shut and don’t leave. Aziraphale breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, sighing so deeply and contented that it should forgive a hundred of Crowley’s sins easily. Crowley tries removing feather after feather, but none will dislodge. His hands wander up to Aziraphale’s shoulders and start kneading the muscles there.

“You’re tense, angel,” he whispers. “Too tense. It’s not fair. You shouldn’t be tasked with this. And no help from Heaven? What do they expect you to do?”

“Mmm … don’t tempt me,” Aziraphale replies through heavy lips.

“I would never,” Crowley lies since the thought had crossed his mind. Tempting Aziraphale to relax enough for him to get a feather would be a simple thing. For that matter, he could tempt him into taking the spices and leaving with none of this ridiculous pretense slowing him down. But he can’t. He’d lose Aziraphale’s trust, then the angel might never speak to him again.

A friendship with an angel should only be worth what said angel can do for him.

But that’s not what Aziraphale’s friendship means to Crowley.

It means so much more.

As Crowley massages, Aziraphale’s wings shudder. From the corner of his eye, he sees one feather shift out of place. It doesn’t fall, but a tug tells Crowley that it’s on its way, ready to come out any minute.

He just needs to figure out how to help it along.

“I … I’m going to try something,” Crowley says, hands traveling down the front of Aziraphale’s shirt and around to his sides. “But I need you to …”

“To trust you?”

“Yes,” Crowley breathes, working down Aziraphale’s body, manipulating stiff muscles along the way. With each knot he unravels, the feather twitches, but it holds fast. He runs his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, rubs small circles over his temples. He whispers more sweet nothings, each balancing on the razor’s edge of temptation but not quite tipping over.

When he runs out of ideas and kisses Aziraphale on the mouth, puts a hand on his cheek to keep him grounded, he feels they’ve gone a step back. Aziraphale’s shoulders go rigid again, his ab muscles locked as if he’s preparing to bolt. But after a beat, he reciprocates with a hand to Crowley’s neck and a whimper so sweet, it melts Crowley to the core. It spurs him on, makes him act irrationally.

Act out fantasies he never thought he’d own up to.

He positions his body against Aziraphale’s to keep him shielded, keep him trapped. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he lowers the waistband to Aziraphale’s pants.

“Is this all right?” he whispers because no matter what excuse he can give to Aziraphale and to himself, he doesn’t want to force him. He wants to help him, but greater good be damned. He’s not going to sacrifice their relationship to fulfill his own selfish needs.

He’s not God.

Crowley kisses Aziraphale again and again, one hand exploring blindly and finding the sensitive skin between Aziraphale’s legs, soft curls, and a wholly unexpected erection. Crowley winds his fingers around it, stroking so gently it’s barely a touch. Aziraphale gasps, his head falls back, but Crowley doesn’t stop kissing, planting a winding trail of them from his chin to his neck, stopping at the hollow to lick, and then traveling up again.

Crowley’s grip closes in a bit, then a bit more, his hand moving faster when Aziraphale’s gasps turn into moans. His wings shiver, plastered back against the dirty wall, making Aziraphale look like a butterfly pinned in the shadowbox of a macabre collection, and not even Crowley’s collection.

 _Hell’s_ collection if Crowley isn’t careful.

And that’s when reality hits him.

He’s going too far.

Crowley had only intended on loosening Aziraphale up, make his feathers more pliant. But Aziraphale is a hair’s breath from coming in this stall, pressed up against a filthy wall, blocked from the eyes of foot traffic by a thin curtain and Crowley’s body. With regret Crowley knows he’s doing Aziraphale a huge disservice.

Aziraphale deserves better.

“Tell me to stop, Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers though he can’t make his hand follow his own command. “ _Demand_ it. Tell me this is as far as you’re willing to go.”

“I---I can’t,” Aziraphale stammers, whining with the fear that Crowley might stop, might leave him there wanting, aching. “Please! Don’t stop! Don’t … for the love of …”

“I would never.” Crowley cuts him off before he can invoke Her name, the words rising in his throat and spilling from his tongue without any thought, without any effort.

And that’s when he knows he’s done for.

His free will, which he’s not sure he ever had anyway, has been forfeited, since he’ll never be able to deny this angel anything.

Crowley strokes Aziraphale’s feathers as he strokes his cock, the combination of sensations buckling Aziraphale’s knees. But Crowley’s body pressed against his keeps him standing. Aziraphale may be floating; the angel isn’t sure. If he is, he has no part in it. He feels himself rising, inside and out, the only thing anchoring him to earth, Crowley’s hands - fondling, caressing.

“Yes,” Aziraphale moans, back arched, face tilted to the sky. “Oh, Crowley! Yes … yes …” Aziraphale reaches out to hold Crowley, pull him near, feel at one with him. Aziraphale wants him so badly it’s become a thorn in his brain, plaguing him daily, begging to be plucked out.

But for the life of him, he leaves it. Lets it fester.

In Crowley’s head, a dozen realizations hit him at once, but the two most pressing are these:

Firstly, they’ve been found out. Here in this stall. Which means the discovery of Aziraphale’s little troupe isn’t far behind. No longer is Aziraphale out of time. The time he’s using is borrowed.

Secondly, Aziraphale is coming, Crowley feels it in the throbbing against his palm, the racing of Aziraphale’s heart marking time against Crowley’s chest, the stuttering of the angel’s hips, the choked off pleas that are a mixture of _yes_ and _oh_ and (spectacularly) his name.

“Crowley … Crowley … oh, Crowley …”

The demon inside him wants a trophy. Something to remember this triumph by. It may be something Crowley will hate himself over later but that’s such a grey area.

Nothing big. Nothing celestial.

Just a taste.

Reluctantly, he pulls out of Aziraphale’s grasp, bends down, and puts his mouth over Aziraphale’s cock as he comes.

Samples him for himself.

Doesn’t relinquish a single drop.

His eyes roll back and his body seizes, filled to bursting with white-hot power.

Aziraphale tastes like fire.

He tastes like fury.

He tastes like grace.

It’s _glorious_.

There’s barely a pinch when the feather comes free from Aziraphale’s wing, but with his orgasm spiraling through him, it doesn’t register at all. He could have had his entire wing torn off. He probably wouldn’t have felt a thing.

What does register is Crowley’s soft kiss to his cheek, his whispered, “Goodbye, angel. Good luck,” his body disappearing, and his heat bleeding away. When Aziraphale opens his eyes, his wings have tucked themselves behind him, the sack of spices still sitting on the ledge beside him.

And Crowley is gone.


End file.
